Behold," quoth he, “ that mighty thing,

A pumpkin, large and round, “ Is held but by a little string, “ Which upwards cannot make it spring,

“ Or bear it from the ground; “ Whilst on this oak, a fruit so small,

“So disproportion'd grows;
“ That who with sense surveys this all,
“ This universal casual ball,

“ Its ill contrivance knows.
My better judgment would have hung

“ That weight upon a tree;
“ And left this mast thus slightly strung
’Mongst things that on the surface sprung,

“ And small and feeble be." Nor more the caviller could say,

Nor farther faults descry;
For, as he upward gazing lay,
An acorn, loosen'd from the stay,

Fell down upon his eye.
Th' offending part with tears ran o'er,

As punish'd for the sin :
Fool ! had that bough a pumpkin bore,
Thy whimsies must have work'd no more,

Nor scull have kept them in.

THE EMMETS.

These emmets, how little they are in our eyes !
We tread them to dust, and a troop of them dies,

Without our regard or concern :
Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their school,
There's many a sluggard and many a fool

Some lessons of wisdom might learn.
They don't wear their time out in sleeping or play,
But gather up corn in a sun-shiny day,

And for winter they lay up their stores : They manage their work in such regular forms, One would think they foresaw all the frosts and

the storms, And so brought their food within doors. But I have less sense than a poor creeping ant, If I take not due care for the things I shall want,

Nor provide against dangers in time: When death or old age shall stare me in my face, What a wretch shall I be in the end of my days,

If I trifle away all their prime ! Now, now, while my strength and my youth are in

bloom, Let me think what will serve me when sickness

shall come,

And pray that my sins be forgiv'n:
Let me read in good books, and believe, and obey,
That when Death turns me out of this cottage of

clay,
I may dwell in a palace in heav'n.

THE SLUGGARD.-Watts. 'Tis the voice of the sluggard ; I heard him com

plain, “ You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber

again;" As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy

head.

“ A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;" Thus he wastes his days and his hours without

number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, Or walks about saunt'ring, or trilling he stands. I pass’d by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;

The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes, 'till he starves or he

begs. I made him a visit, still hoping to find He had taken more care in improving his mind : He told me his dreams, talk'd of eating and

drinking, But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves

thinking Said I then to my heart, “ Here's a lesson for me; “ That man's but a picture of what I might be : “ But thanks to my friends for their care in my

breeding, “Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."

INNOCENT PLAY. Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs Run sporting about by the side of their dams,

With fleeces so clean and so white;
Or a nest of young doves in a large open cage,
When they play all in love, without anger or rage,

How much we may learn from the sight!
If we had been ducks, we might dabble in mud,
Or dogs, we might play 'till it ended in blood;

So foul and so fierce are their natures :
But Thomas, and William, and such pretty names,
Should be cleanly and harmless as doves or as

lambs, Those lovely sweet innocent creatures. Not a thing that we do, nor a word that we say, Should injure another in jesting or play;

For he's still in earnest that's hurt: How rude are the boys that throw pebbles and

mire! There's none but a madam will fing about fire,

And tell you, “ 'Tis all but in sport." "

THE STURDY ROCK. The sturdy rock, for all its strength,

By raging seas is rent in twain :
The marble

stone is pierc'd at length,
With little drops of drizzling rain;
The ox doth yield unto the yoke,
The steel obeys the hammer's stroke.
The stately stag, that seems so stout,

By yelping hounds at bay is set;
The swiftest bird that flies about,

At length is caught in fowler's net;
The greatest fish, in deepest brook,
Is soon deceived by subtle hook.
Yea, man himself, unto whose will

All things are bounden to obey,
For all his

wit and worthy skill,
Doth fade at length and fall away ;
There is no thing but time doth waste,
The heav'ns, the earth, consume at last.
But Virtue sits triumphing still

Upon the throne of glorious fame;
Though spiteful Death man's body kill,

Yet hurts he not his virtuous name;
By life or death whate'er betides,
The state of Virtue never slides.

WE ARE SEVEN.-Wordsworth. A SIMPLE child, dear brother Sim,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said, Her hair was thick with

That cluster'd round her head.

many a curl

She had a rustic woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair,

Her beauty made me glad.
“ Sisters and brothers, little maid,

“ How many may you be ?" “How many-seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. “ And where are they, I pray you tell ?”

She answer'd,“ Seven are we, “ And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea. “ Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother, “ And in the church-yard cottage, I

“ Dwell near them with my mother,” “ You say that two at Conway dwell,

“ And two are gone to sea, “ And yet you are seven, I pray you tell

“ Sweet maid how this may be." Then did the little maid reply,

“ Seven boys and girls are we, “ Two of us in the church-yard lie

“ Beneath the church-yard tree.” “ You run about my little maid,

* Your limbs are all alive,
“ If two are in the church-yard laid,

" Then you are only five."
“ Their graves are green,

“ They may be seen," The little maid replied,

“ Twelve steps or more

“ From mother's door, “ And they are side by side.